


we could have been (everything)

by kurgaya



Category: Bleach
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Awkward Kissing, Canonical Character Death, Community: heroinebigbang, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Platonic Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five kisses; five moments of a life passing by, and one to end it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we could have been (everything)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiniyakkii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiniyakkii/gifts).



> Masaki is an absolute _queen_ and this story is utter dorkiness and fluff and uber silliness and then **_angst_**. ~~I'm so sorry~~
> 
> Written for the heroine big bang on livejournal. This story can also be found on tumblr, FF.net, and LJ.
> 
> With MASSIVE thanks to raktajinos for the art! /rolls around :D

 

 

by [raktajinos](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4087519)

 

 **001** | Ryuuken

They try it once, just to see what it feels like. Masaki is aware that kissing is a healthy, traditional part of any relationship – and her relationship with Ryuuken is definitely _traditional_ – so she sees little point in dancing around the subject. Overcoming the _what-am-I-supposed-to-do-with-my-tongue_ hurdle is a step towards ensuring the purity of the quincy bloodline, and at least Masaki might then finally seem _worthwhile_ in the eyes of her aunt.

Ryuuken is a different matter. Masaki hopes that by the time her lips have become accustomed to the sensation of his frigid reluctance, his sense of duty and the weirdness of it all ( _weirdness_ is, of course, toning down her opinions on this marriage by a _substantial_ amount), she will be able to hold his hand without wanting to punch someone in the face.

(Not him – not really).

(Just – someone).

So, they try it. Ryuuken moves around her bedroom with the body of a military operation, tall, straight, and unbelievably firm, but with how the blandness of his clothes – the blandness of his _face_ more like – seems to seep into the walls, he appears a mouse as well, and Masaki cannot help but ponder what strategic insight a mouse would offer into this situation. Undoubtedly, it would be a far cuter addition to the atmosphere of doom attempting to suffocate the room, but Masaki isn’t sure she’d want to kiss it even with its little hat and little military jacket, so she supposes Ryuuken is a win really.

He coughs to clear the lump of _ohgod_ in his throat, but doesn’t continue with his odd shuffling motion from the door. Masaki would sympathise with his nerves if it weren’t such a blatantly out of character state for him; to uphold the quincy regime, Ryuuken always expresses himself as a strict professionalism, and to see him so thrown is bizarre. Plus, he’s a teenaged _boy_ , and Masaki would be lying if she said that his flustering didn’t amuse her.

Still. They have agreed to go through with this, and she isn’t about to chicken out. (She hadn’t bought those mints for _nothing_ after all). Tidying away her amber locks of hair so that Ryuuken doesn’t get a nasty surprise part-way through their snog, Masaki decides that waiting for him to approach is a lost cause and so bounds over towards him. There is a moment of uninhibited terror on his face when she does, but by the time she has planted herself before him, he has covered the slip with his usual composure.

“You game?” she asks, standing so close that she’s almost on his toes. Crossing her arms isn’t an option with the space, so Masaki settles for placing her hands on her hips instead.

“Um,” says Ryuuken, and though he will forever deny that he did so, it is definitely a squeak.

 _He’s better than a mouse_ , Masaki reminds herself.

She rocks back on her heels, as if the swing of her body will lighten the mood. It might do, maybe one day, but that time is a long way off, and Ryuuken seems no calmer for her cheery attitude. He looks as trapped as she feels, and Masaki has to force the gleaming smile to remain upon her face against his drizzly outlook.

(There’s no need to share her sadness).

“Come on _Ryuu-chan_ ,” she says, his name a song upon her lips. “I brushed my teeth and everything.”

Ryuuken blinks at her, confidence fractured into nervousness by the solid frame of his glasses. Years seem to seep out of his expression as he stares at her; it’s not his usual analytical assessment, but rather, surprise and a small amount of amusement that he reserves only for her presence.

“Yes,” he says, seeming to collect the undecided pieces of himself. “Yes, alright.”

 _He’s not a mouse_ , she thinks, and promptly stretches up onto her tiptoes to instigate the kiss.

It’s not really a kiss – or, if it is, then romance novels across the eras have _blindly_ robbed Masaki of the truth. Their mouths crash together, tenderness forgone for teenage insecurity. They are skin against skin, lips against lips and teeth, tongues, and startled words smashed together in between. It is less of a kiss and more of a rush, family expectations and age-old traditions slamming together to form a unity of _oh my god_ and _what are we doing_. They wrench themselves apart after the longest of moments, a unanimous decision from two opposing sides, their faces matched with cringes as they turn their bodies away.

Masaki wipes her mouth, trying to remove the taste from her lips. Embarrassment stings on her face with a blush as bright as her hair, and her features distort as she scrubs her teeth with her tongue, all previous willingness twisting into distaste.

“ _Ew_ ,” She says, scanning the room for where she left the packet of mints. “Ew, that was –”

She freezes, recalling that Ryuuken is still standing there, and glances up to gauge his reaction. He is stoic before her, dishevelled and quiet, but he mirrors her deer-like expression as Masaki prays for the ground to swallow her up.

“Ah, yes,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Yes, that was…”

There are no words to describe that experience, but Masaki smiles, glad and a little bit guilty to see that he is feeling the same.

“Well,” Ryuuken adds, sounding lost. Nothing more is uttered and Masaki’s grin grows.

“Want a mint?” she asks, waving the packet at him. Unashamedly, she plops two into her mouth and then gives the packet a long, hard look, considering adding a third. Maybe she should brush her teeth again to rid them of the stench of mortification.

Ryuuken coughs. “Yes please,” he says.

Masaki laughs and throws him the packet.

(Guess they won’t be doing that again).

 

 

 

 **002** | Yoruichi

They’ve drunk so much that they wouldn’t even notice Aizen _himself_ come charging through the house in nothing but his birthday suit, and although Masaki is certain that she’s lost her sense of rationality as well as her inhibitions (and timekeeping skills, sense of humour, and, err, well _everything_ ) somewhere at the bottom of the bottle, she is having the _time of her life_ and she doesn’t even _care_.

Kisuke, the dweeb, has consumed so little that he could probably still pass a police inspection if they pulled him over in suspicion of drunk-driving (not that he can even _drive_ – man, fundamental dilemma right there, Gotei Thirty- _whatever_ ). Instead, he has his hands full with Isshin’s intoxicated ways – which are amusing, Masaki has to note, but she’s glad that Kisuke is the unfortunate victim to Isshin’s overdramatic slobbering and general clinginess. Isshin as a hyperactive, cuddly drunk is _not_ surprising, and Kisuke seems to be handling him well. And by that Masaki means _barely tolerating being used as a pillow and still having not succeeded in peeling Isshin from his arm_.

Guys are weird and stupid and like – like the _best_.

Then Yoruichi leans over and _snogs her_ , and the unexpected kiss wipes every jumbled thought of tall, bearded idiots from Masaki’s mind. In fact, she pretty much forgets everything but the feel of Yoruichi’s smirk against her – lips intent and feline sly – and the gleeful, glorious slink of a woman’s body against her own, experience gliding against inexperience. There is a laugh from somewhere but there is laughter all around, and then there are hands and smiles and skin and _tongue_ , hot and strange and prompting gasping noises that Masaki never knew she could make –

“Awwie,” Yoruichi coos, pinching the blush on Masaki’s cheek. Her eyes shine with a topaz glow, and when she smiles her teeth are bright, fangs revealed by a wicked grin. “You’re so cute, Masaki-chan.”

Words fail Masaki – her tongue flops useless in her mouth, sizzling from the heat of the kiss, the _burn_ of Yoruichi’s charm, and her brain has melted into gloop save for the occasional frazzle of nerves as the violet-haired woman wiggles closer, practically sitting in her lap.

“Uh,” Masaki says.

Yoruichi laughs loud and wild and then rolls Masaki’s face between her hands, making silly expressions from her cheeks.

“Wanna do that again?” she asks, winking one of her beautiful amber eyes. Hair falls about her, a plum cascade across her shoulders. She coos again and then bops Masaki on the nose, completely and utterly _plastered_.

“Uh,” Masaki says. Her nose wrinkles. “Uhh?”

Yoruichi continues to laugh.

 

 

 

 **003** | Isshin

Time has stilled, a bedroom locked in an eternal turn of two moments around a sun; two people joined together as the day’s rush slips by. The hour is infinite to Masaki. She cares little for the world beyond the door – beyond the four corners of her bed, in fact, sheets scrunched into loving care about her. Rather, her husband captivates her attention, as uninspiring as he may be now. Slumbering away the thralls of their passion, their happy, blissful ways, Isshin snores on. He is sprawled across the bed as if it is entirely his own, and Masaki laughs beside him, against him and atop him.

“ _Isshin_ ,” she calls, elongating the syllables of his name. “Wakey-wakey.”

He sleeps on, unaware of his wife’s endeavour. Long-since used to her partner’s sleeping log impression, Masaki simply laughs and switches to another method, eager to triumph in her goal.

“ _Isshin_ ,” she whispers, trailing her fingertips across his chin. Stubble brushes against her skin, dark hair clinging to her touch. Masaki smiles and wiggles closer, as if there is any space left between them now that their vows have been exchanged.

“Hey, grizzly bear, are you going to ignore your newly-wedded wife, hmm?”

Isshin grunts at her coo and buries further into the pillow. Masaki takes that as a blatant _yes_ and promptly plasters herself across him, enclosing his oblivious vulnerability within a cocoon of warmth and chestnut hues, lines of amber softened by the glow of the morn.

She kisses his cheek and giggles when his arm folds up from behind her, scooping her into place beside him. Isshin sleeps on, caressing both her body and the pillow with his slumber. Masaki kisses him again, this time tracing the jagged edges of his stubble with her lips, and curls herself in closer. Consciousness slips away into dreams of gold and silver, and Masaki falls asleep in a tangle of duvet and love, touched only by the affection of the day.

Isshin’s wedding band is cool against her back, but time will heat it, she is sure, until it melts into skin and fuses his soul with gold.

 

 

 

 **004** | Kisuke

As the Kurosaki duo haven’t decided which one of them should break the news to their scientific, hat-wearing friend by the time Kisuke unwittingly opens the door to the shop, _clearly_ the only option left available to them is to one-up the other’s greeting by screaming at the top of their lungs:

“ ** _KISUKE GUESS WHAT!”_**

Kisuke Urahara has seen too many horrors to be surprised by whatever misery the world throws at him, but being hollered at by two _incredibly mature_ adults as they bounce around at his doorstep is another matter entirely. Sheer _panic_ flashes across his face, and he startles so violently that his hat topples to the ground as he trips over the doorstep and flounders into the street.

Masaki laughs so hard at his uncharacteristic lack of elegance that she almost face-plants the ground, but Isshin, still jumping around like a lunatic, hoists his terrified friend up by the shoulders and sets him back into the doorway.

“ _GUESS WHAT_?” the doctor yells over the sound of Masaki’s laughter, his exhilaration shrieking through Kisuke’s eardrum. He scoops the scientist up into a hug, hurling him clean off the ground. “ _KISUKE GUESS WHAT_?”

“What?” Kisuke blurts, helpless against Isshin’s dynamic enthusiasm. Masaki feels a little bad for him, and she wonders if they should have forewarned the poor shinigami of their arrival. Yet, watching Kisuke flail for rationality is worth the titbit of guilt; astounded and most definitely growing unnerved by his friends’ behaviour, he laughs nervously, blonde hair frazzled in his confusion.

Isshin’s smile is explanation enough.

“ _MASAKI’S PREGNANT!”_

The doctor squeals and spins the shopkeeper around, and Masaki smiles at his glee. It’s a beautiful, infectious emotion, and she rubs her stomach absentmindedly, a habit she knows will only grow in the times to come.

“ _Pregnant_?” Kisuke exclaims, stumbling back onto his feet after freeing himself from Isshin. Flustered at his friend’s lack of social boundaries, he tidies his outfit and fumbles around for his hat, Isshin cackling unhelpfully. Fetching it from the ground, Kisuke brushes it down before setting it back onto his head, hiding his unruly mess of hair. Only then does he seem to remember himself, straightening up as his manners and mystery return.

“Ah,” he says, blinking at the happy couple. “I suppose congratulations are in order?”

Isshin pouts and Masaki laughs. “You don’t have to sound so uncertain, Kisuke-san,” she chimes, leaping towards him in skips and bounds. She sweeps him up into a hug, giggling into his shoulder, and presses a swift kiss into his cheek.

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered,” she coos, and he mumbles unintelligently in return, patting her with an awkwardness that suggests he fears she might break.

“Aha, forgive me Masaki-san –”

Masaki swats his shoulder, interrupting his unnecessary apology. “Hey, hey, don’t apologise! You should be thanking me! No ifs-or-buts, you’re going to be the unofficial godfather, okay? You’ve got nine months to baby-proof your house and lock away all those things in your lab that you think I haven’t seen –”

Kisuke stares as she rambles on, his brilliant mind useless to the Kurosaki logic.

Behind his wife, Isshin _ooooooohs_.

 

 

 

 **005** | Tōshirō

“I’m looking for something,” he tells her, casting his gaze away. There is a wisdom in his eyes that Masaki hadn’t expected to see – his soul is an age-old storm brewing blizzards for his hair and bitterness for his tongue – and he seems a warrior trapped in the body of a boy, a dragon confined by brittle bones and bruising skin. He stuffs small hands into his pockets as if the oversized hoodie is the only thing grounding him to this world, and Masaki wouldn’t be surprised if that were true. It is at least two sizes too large for him and he regards it with open distain, but his infuriation may be to his body in general – as fake and uncomfortable it may be.

 _Gigai_ , Kisuke had told her once, and Masaki hopes that this shinigami before her hadn’t stumbled across the scientist’s humble establishment in his search for the most tight-fitting form available.

She doubts it, but she holds her baby-bump protectively and reaches for her quincy heritage all the same. Revealing herself is a _bad idea_ , but letting harm come to her unborn child is also a _BAD IDEA_.

At first glance, the boy with the frosty hair and frosty eyes appears mostly harmless, but the Soul Society’s strength has scarred Masaki’s heritage, and she would rather not take her chances with a shinigami captain. Human ignorance and supernatural disbelief hides his haori, but she can see it anyway, a sheet of snowfall wrapped around his shoulders as his great, _vast_ spiritual energy churns within its confines.

Yet, there is something painfully _young_ about him – something lost, scared and drowning in a world that he is struggling to understand – and the mother-to-be can only suppose this is the reason why she is still seated beside him on the park bench, a sandwich wrapper crinkling in her hands. Wariness implores her to hesitate, to track his subtle movements of insecurity, but not once has she felt truly _unsafe_ in this shinigami’s presence. He is a threat but he is not a _threat_ , and she can’t find the words to describe how she feels except for…

Motherly.

It could be the hormones talking – and they’ve definitely done a lot of _talking_ over these past months – but it could also be the boy’s ridiculously _big_ and hurting _eyes_ –

 _This is your fault_ , she says to her unborn child, and the baby squirms its protest as Masaki offers the shinigami her packet of [_amanattō_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amanatt%C5%8D).

“I’m sure you’ll find whatever it is,” she says, shaking the packet when the shinigami does little more than stare at her. How they have come to partake in this conversation has slipped free from Masaki’s memory, but as the shinigami carefully takes some of the sweets and mutters a quiet _thank you_ , she is glad to have stuck around. Apart from food and an encouraging smile, Masaki cannot offer much, but the boy’s heartfelt delight as he nibbles on the sticky treat suggests that he doesn’t mind.

“Things have a funny way of working out,” she continues, thinking of her dorky husband and Kisuke’s unbelievable plan to prevent her hollowification. Fate had been kind to her that day, and Masaki smiles as she pours more of the amanattō into the shinigami’s hand, certain that fate will be kind to him too.

“I hope so,” says the shinigami, the chewing motions of his jaw distorting the melancholy expression upon his face. “I’ve been looking for a long time.”

If he recognises how odd this statement would be for a human of his age, he gives no indication. Rather, he pushes away his fringe and heaves a sigh, lifting his gaze to the empty parameters of the park and beyond, up into the sky.

Masaki has the strangest feeling that he would fly away, if he could.

“Thank you for the amanattō,” he says then, standing instead. He brushes himself down as if he is wearing his best – as if it is the only thing he ever wears – but jolts out of his professionalism when Masaki wobbles to her own feet, hurriedly offering her heavily pregnant figure a hand.

She laughs at the flash of childish uncertainty across his face when he cannot suppress a gawk of astonishment at her shape. He blushes, hovering nervously, and then snaps back into his military-tight formation in the blink of an eye.

“Thank you,” Masaki says, hoping to encourage one final earnest reaction before he returns to the strict regimes of his life as a captain. “Don’t stop looking, okay?”

And before she can stop herself, she leans down and dots a kiss into the fuzzy tangles of his hair. His face burns so brightly that she is sure his embarrassment will be seen for miles, and Masaki grins, absently looking forward to teasing her own child to the same extent.

“Uh,” says the shinigami, and he quite promptly ducks away and flees.

 _What a strange boy_ , Masaki thinks, and she laughs the entire way home.

 

 

 

 **006** | Ichigo

Rain thunders down, strikes of lightning scorching fragments of fire into the night; minutes of a life burning away as the clouds gather close, the storm of final moments creeping near. The river is howling, a wail of sorrow bursting over its banks and flooding a tempesting battleground across the green. High, the moon oversees its light of shadows through the cloud, and low, the sun wanes in exhaustion, the inevitability of slumber darkening the sky.

Masaki lowers the umbrella closer to her head, wishing that she had remembered a jacket. Rain drips down her back, tangling in the amber knots of her hair like blood of salt and tears clotting in the golden strands, and she shivers, clutching her son’s hand tighter. His fingers are warm where hers are cold, but Ichigo does not squeal or pull away, but rather starts to rub her hand with the jerking, frantic motions of a child’s gentleness to share his warmth.

“Mummy’s alright,” Masaki coos, nudging him to return his hands to the safety to the outrageously yellow pockets of his raincoat. It clashes with his hair like no other colour ever could, but nobody will ever dispute that he isn’t the most adorably baby-faced mush of something between a lemon and an orange. Plus, Isshin had laughed himself into a fit when they saw the coat in-store, and Masaki wasn’t going to pass up something that can reduce her husband to such a state. She’s sure that Ichigo will come to appreciate the embarrassment-feud between parents and their children when he’s older.

“Mummy’s cold,” Ichigo says a-matter-of-factly, oblivious to his mother’s glee. He shoots her a particularly teenage _you going to argue with me?_ expression that looks _preposterous_ on the rounded angles of his nine-year-old blubber, and Masaki is helpless to smother her smile. Ichigo continues his ministrations, huffing hot air across her skin with short, puffing sounds like a dragon attempting to sneeze, and Masaki laughs, utterly certain of the terror that her son will grow into.

(Thunder rumbles far away, warning of a future looming near. A predator stalks the riverbank, a shadow against the spotlight moon, but larger-than-life and something born only from the darkest of dreams, it passes unnoticed as it skulks towards its goal. Claws carve through the earth and eyes of topaz burning fire slink beneath the storm, its hollow will enticing life and death at the end of its ghastly lure. It prowls for sustenance, a creature hungry for calamity and sorrow, but it is not the only being on the hunt that night).

(Somewhere beyond this earthly plain, a king’s terrible plan surges up to swallow the sun).

The shy hues of the sun breaking open a smile upon Ichigo’s face rewards Masaki’s delight, and in that moment, she is sure that everything is right in the world.

How wrong she is comes to light in a flash of lightning, white fire screaming across the sky. Ichigo mutters into the thunderous roar, his words tinged with a worry too large for the size of his heart, a protectiveness he has earned from the power of his parents. His hand slips away from hers, his eyes intent on a goal that Masaki cannot see – or a goal that _he_ cannot see, perhaps, and a world of monsters, fear, friendship, and love that he is yet to appreciate, an adult world, and one that he will come understand too soon. The riverbank swells, great torrents of water trying to wash away the sins of this night, and Masaki’s fingers brush against her son’s raincoat as he darts away – a warning, a reassurance, and a fear conveyed in the slightest of touches, a fleeting moment between mother and child.

His feet skid into the muddy bank. The squelching, sloppy sound of his footsteps is the final clock counting down, and the golden glow of his coat dims into the mist and the rain, a sun going supernova and a solar system about to collapse with its ultimate breath. He seems to blur at the edges as he runs, his light joining that of the night, and Masaki opens her mouth to call out to him, a terror so primal ripping up her throat that it eradicates all rational thought as the monster in the shadows looms closer to her _child_ –

Lightning crashes in the sky. Power rushes through her like wildfire, agony scorching beneath her skin. A bow takes form in her hands, starlight and moonlight gathering into a weapon worthy of the constellations, and the quincy draws her arm back to take aim, unwavering in her intent to take this shot before the terrors of the otherworld can _feast_ their ghastly claws on –

Masaki takes a breath and the next shatters out in a scream. Her body plummets, knees cracking against the concrete like the gunshot fire of the thunderstorm. A pain like nothing she has ever imagined consumes her and she is blind for a moment, blind and deaf and defenceless as sinister hands of a phantom tear her soul away. Her bow shatters about her, the last of its heavenly glow joining the chill of the night, and Masaki shrieks in her breathless agony, clutching her chest and vomiting an air thick with questions onto the ground.

There is nothing left to hurt when the pain ebbs away – nothing, that is, except one.

By the riverbank, Ichigo screams.

Mud splatters up her skirt as Masaki _hurls_ herself up, bruises and blood waiting to appear. She has nothing, she realises, but a bow in pieces, a blut vene dormant beneath her skin, and a hirenkyaku chased away by the terrors of a king that she will never understand; nothing to protect her child except _one thing_ , but that is all she needs.

Grand Fisher rises up, lightning ready to strike, and Ichigo continues to scream.

He only stops once he’s curled into the ground like some sacrificial lamb, his daisy-yellow raincoat sodden with the weight of his uncontrollable sobs and the splatters of gore staining the happy fabric. Dark, the earth beneath him squelches when he wiggles, lifting his tiny, shaking hands to clutch around his mother’s neck, and Masaki feels a smile replace the twisted contortions of her scream as the boy breathes against her – awake, unharmed, and _alive_. The pain is worth the sound of Ichigo’s sharp, gasping breaths – _was_ worth it, for there is little Masaki can feel now, her body numb to everything but the rain – but her motherly instincts implore her to comfort while she can, to soothe the warbles of her son’s increasing terror.

“Hush, Ichigo,” she tries, shushing her child with lips of scarlet and a tongue of blood; the words fumble from her mouth, dribbling into his raincoat like sickly dollops and fear. He sobs harder, hiccupping as the rain patters down onto his face, and Masaki curls an arm around his head, desperately playing with the fiery strands of his hair.

 _He’s so small_.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” she mutters, whispering the lingering waves of pain into his ear. Tears sting behind her eyes, but like the distancing storm rumbling far away she does not let them fall, instead holding back her fear as the rainclouds break open into their final act.

Grand Fisher is long gone, but he will be back.

He will return for Ichigo just as this night will, a haunting for many years to come.

“It’s alright,” Masaki continues, her bloodied gurgling unable to articulate _I’m sorry my child_ and _stay safe my love_. “It’s alright, Ichigo, it’s alright.”

There is more that she could say but the words have been swept away, drowned in the torrents of the river as it overflows before them. Instead, she strokes her son’s sopping hair and lulls him to sleep, never once deterring her gaze as the darkness reaches for them both, dreamless dreams abound. Ichigo’s breathing evens out as the world around them roars, and Masaki laughs a gasping laugh as her child drifts away.

When he wakes, she will be gone, so she presses a kiss into his cheek and hopes it will linger on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment as you go~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for 'We Could Have Been (Everything)'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087519) by [raktajinos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raktajinos/pseuds/raktajinos)




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